


Mad Season, Part 1

by starshine24mc



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-26
Updated: 2002-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-21 01:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine24mc/pseuds/starshine24mc
Summary: On the road again, just can't wait to get on the road again.well, it's that time of the year again, so without further ado, and with just a wee shout out to my favorite woodland creatures, here is the sequel to How I Spent My Summer Vacation. Enjoy.





	Mad Season, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Mad Season, Part 1

## Mad Season, Part 1

#### by Goddess Michele

From: <>  
Date: Friday, June 21, 2002 5:05 AM 

Title: Mad Season, Part 1  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE! Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: NC17  
Status: WIP Part one of three  
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome. 

Spoilers: not really, but if you find one, don't eat it! 

Archive: Anywhere, including atxf and SM, just be sure to leave my name on it. 

Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way. 

Summary: On the road again, just can't wait to get on the road again.well, it's that time of the year again, so without further ado, and with just a wee shout out to my favorite woodland creatures, here is the sequel to How I Spent My Summer Vacation. Enjoy. 

* * *

Chapter 1 - Mad Season 

"Now-I'm cryin'-isn't that what you want? I'm tryin' to live my life on my own  
But I won't  
At times-I do believe I am strong  
So someone tell me why, why, why  
Do I feel stupid?" 

Walter Skinner was sleeping on the porch of his small house when the call came. 

No one had ever phoned him. Walter didn't mind. Every day that the phone had stayed mute was one more day that he didn't die, so. 

He'd made the decision, there in that tiny room that day, the only decision he knew he could make: The options had been crystal clear: Take a bow, take a walk, take nothing but a pittance for a retirement package to live on. Oh, and if you talk, you'll be killed. Option B was simply be killed. 

Even now he admired Kersh. The man had taken the choice away from those bastards, driving himself through that office window with enough force to ram shards of broken glass as long as his hand through his throat. He'd been dead long before his body hit the pavement five stories below. 

Skinner remembered shock, and then a sudden longing to follow him, to take his own plunge, and his own revenge on the sons of bitches. But then, like a drumbeat, like his own heartbeat, a dark refrain, both somber and hopeful: 'Mulder.Mulder.Mulder/.' 

And he knew he was going to beat these murdering thugs. Somehow, someway, he was going to beat them. Because if he quit now, they'd win. 

Walter Skinner was an excellent assistant director, had been a remarkable agent, and was once an outstanding marine. And so he knew immediately what he had to do. The chips were down, the deck was stacked against him, the odds were nearly insurmountable. 

Walter Skinner knew to go to ground. 

Tail tucked convincingly between his legs, he had slunk away. He took what they gave him with a completely bogus 'yah-suh!' and an idiot's grin; if he'd had a cap, he would have been wringing it. 

With the money from the bureau, and his own savings, he'd held his own while waiting for the house to sell. He didn't have to wait long, and he knew that he wouldn't. But when the time came, it pained him just the same. _His_ name on the lease, maybe, but _their_ home just the same. Their first home. And every corner, every nail and beam and bit of furnishing called out to him. 'Mulder.Mulder.Mulder/.' 

He had himself a good cry on the last night, and was completely dry-eyed and urbanely sweet when the young couple came to take possession the next morning. He was grave, yet charming; obviously a widow, they thought. 

He walked away and didn't look back. 

He knew he was being tracked, and he didn't care. Let 'em watch, he thought. Better those inhuman eyes on him than on his lover. 

He found an old house in a modest neighborhood, one that he could tinker with, and soon discovered his inner handyman. He fixed leaky pipes and put in a security system. He refinished the wooden porch and added video surveillance. He built a swing for the porch, and took pictures of the soldiers taking pictures of him. 

He didn't unpack much. 

Weeks passed. He drank scotch to excess and ate just enough to keep the engine of his body going. Hard work and low appetite combined to burn calories and tone, and he grew lean and hard. When the fringe of hair that was all he had left grew in thick and white, he said to hell with it and shaved himself bald. And when the memories of his lover's fingers ruffling that band of hair tried to protest, he dumped scotch on them and built an island in the kitchen. 

Weeks passed. He was on the Internet a lot, keeping up, learning new things, trading information the way Mulder would on a case, if Mulder were- 

He learned of apparent UFO activity in Montana, unexplained deaths in Minnesota, and took an online course in electronics. 

Weeks passed. He let the hair on his face grow, decided it made him look too much like the wild man of Borneo, and opted to keep a neatly trimmed goatee instead. And when he rewired the phones, the phone company continued to bill his unused line, and neither they nor the spies were any the wiser. 

He started more personal inquiries then. One call a night, late, when they'd be less likely to be actively watching. He found out through an old marine buddy that Doggett was back in New York, busted down to background checks and wiretaps. Another call on another night revealed that Agent Reyes had disappeared. He hoped that it had been her own choice. 

He found three dead men he could trust, sent boxes of candy lined with money to them, and they began their own discreet inquiries on his behalf, although they had no small stake in matters themselves. 

The days grew long and warm, and he started spending his evenings on the porch, drinking scotch, or sometimes iced tea, though that was harder to swallow. He ate sunflower seeds that he hated, and watched the stars. Sometimes he read, old war novels mostly, the ones that Mulder had always made fun of. He wore out old Omni magazines with re-reading. There was a box of file folders in the crawlspace under the house, but he didn't touch them. 

He found himself crying less and jerking off more. The anger, though, that never wavered, never changed. A frozen coal was banked in his heart, always burning, always freezing. 

When the package from Columbia House arrived, he wondered briefly about his alcohol consumption. Then he decided there was no way he could have been drunk enough ever to join a record club-there wasn't enough scotch in the world. 

He signed for the package, and glared suspiciously at the mailman. Then he set the package on the porch and went into the house. 

The plain wrapped box was still there the next morning. He had gone down to the crawlspace and spent twenty-four hours there with his emergency kit, a flashlight, The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. and the face of his lover in his heart and in his mind. 

The next day there was still a house over his head, so he brought the package into it. 

More examinations, and then his first clue, which he berated himself for missing in the first place: 

**WALT SKINNER**  
4224 McTAVISH ST. 

Still cautious, death and loss having had a profound effect on his ability to trust (funny how that worked), he donned latex gloves and sliced open the box with an exacto knife. 

Elvis Presley grinned up at him from inside the cardboard container. Skinner closed his eyes, sighed, and re-opened them. 

Elvis was still smiling. From Hawaii, apparently. His lei was yellow. 

"Aloha," Skinner muttered, lifting the cd from the box. 

"You'll Never Walk Alone," said a somber Elvis on the cover of the next disc. "Golden Records!" exclaimed the next one, and "Best Of!" bragged the one after that. "Burning Love" made Walter grin and think of his lover. A "Hayride Show", a "'68 Comeback Tour", and "Maybellene's" "Top 10 Hits" later, and Walter wanted nothing more to do with the king of rock and roll, no matter how enamoured J. Edgar had been with the guy. 

"Don't Worry 'Bout Me!" the last cd in the box proclaimed. It was Joey Ramone's post-humus solo album, and the factory shrink-wrap on it had been removed. Walter took a deep breath, glared once at the Elvis discs lying everywhere, then eased the dead punker's disc out of the box. He found the invoice under the disc, clutched it tightly, and took both items into the living room, where the computer sat in one corner, a generic maze screen saver moving restlessly around the monitor. 

A quick paranoid glance at shades that were perpetually drawn, a longing look that he didn't even notice giving to the fish tank as he passed it, and then he was sitting at the desk, and carefully removing the cd from its case with hands that only shook a little. 

When he opened the cd-rom drive, the screen saver was replaced by FBI seal wallpaper. Only close inspection would have revealed that the 'I' in this FBI stood for INTOXICATION, and the eagle was clutching a bottle in its talons. But Walter Skinner wasn't letting anyone get that close. 

His computer read the disc, undoubtedly disapproved, and a moment later, Joey Ramone was wailing "What a wonderful world!" at the top of his lungs, and a box had popped up on the screen: 

**DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE.BIG GUY**

**YES NO**

With a scowl, he clicked on the 'yes' with more vehemence than was necessary, but no damage was done. This third mouse in as many months was stronger than its predecessors, and was used to the heavy-handed manipulations of its owner. 

**ENTER PASSWORD**

* * *

said the next box. 

"Aw hell," he muttered, ran a hand across his scalp, and fought the urge to turn down the volume. He suspected there was more going on with the disc than punk anthems, and he didn't want to mess with any extra programming that might be keeping his actions from the wrong sets of prying eyes. 

"Damn." He thought fiercely for a moment, quickly typed: 

**MULDER**

Before he could change his mind, and hit the enter key. 

It was a good guess. It was also a wrong one, and a bright red DENIED flashed across the screen, then TRY AGAIN. 

"Shit, shit, shit." 

**MFLUDER**

This typed even faster. He stabbed the enter key again, even harder than before, and found himself holding his breath. 

**DENIED.**

"Bastards!" he hissed. He walked away, nearly tipping over the chair in his haste. He was sweating, nervous, angry now. He paced around the room, a caged tiger coiled and ready to spring on any unsuspecting gazelle that might decide to wander uninvited into the living room in search of fresh grass. 

"Think, dammit, think!" he admonished himself. If it wasn't his lover, or any anagram of same, what would those idiots have used? What was it that they would expect him to know? That he was supposed to think of when he got this cryptic clue. He let his mind wander back, somewhat painfully, to any and all connection he had with the three men. UFOs and EBEs and Mulder, and secret agendas, government conspiracies and Mulder, jail cells and sting operations and Mulder.He thought of their names. He thought of their friends. He thought of exotic dark women and stupid blonde men, and. 

When he ran back to the computer, a ferocious grin was on his face, and he swiped at the keyboard to remove the screensaver, which had taken over in his absence. All he was missing was the shout of Eureka! as he punched keys and muttered prayers and threats. 

**RUMANDCOKE**

Encrypted data started spooling across the screen, illuminating his features, and he reached for pen and paper, immediately recognizing the code, and thanking his absent lover for a long ago rainy day game of 'secret agent man' that allowed him to read the information with little trouble. 

Dates, places, sightings, deaths, near deaths, all of it coming so fast Walter could barely make sense of it all. Maps next, addresses, so many of them, and he worried only long enough to miss a section devoted to a quick escape somewhere in New Mexico. 

They were travelling north, crisscrossing the country seemingly at random. 

He wondered if there was going to be a way to contact them. He nearly laughed at the thought of going through all this trouble just to get a page from the Bumblefuck, Nowhere yellow pages with a listing for Mr. And Mrs. Dana Scully. It wasn't likely, and he wasn't expecting it. So when it came up, he nearly dropped his pen. 

Okay, so it wasn't the yellow pages exactly, and it wasn't their names. But glory; there was a phone number, and an extension. And then a time frame. A tiny window of opportunity that was a little sooner than he was comfortable with. If he had waited much longer, he would have missed it completely, and his stomach lurched at the thought. 

He wrote down the information while Joey Ramone segued into the next song. Then he wandered around the room, looking at the numbers printed in his own tight cursive, legible only to himself and Kim Cook, and his mouth moved as he memorized them. 

When he was sure he knew everything that he needed, he made his way to the kitchen, opened a cupboard, found a tall green apothecary jar, meant for spaghetti, or coffee if you wanted to keep it on hand in vast amounts. But when he opened the lid of the jar, there was no coffee, no pasta, not even staples like flour or sugar. What greeted him was, about a third of the way down the jar, a second lid, this one with a tiny combination lock on it. 

Feeling clumsy, he fiddled with the combination, cursed his fat thumbs, cursed the company that had made the tiny lock, then grinned in surprise and satisfaction as he did every time the dammed thing worked. 

The second lid sprang open to reveal the rest of the jar, empty but for a thick, neatly bundled stack of bills-mad money, his mother would have called it. He tucked the information he'd gotten from the cd under the money, then resealed the jar and shoved it back up on the shelf between the crackers and the salt. 

Making his way back to the living room, he started thinking about the awful risk that his lover had taken, that their friends had taken on both their behalf's. And he thought there was nothing more worth it, more worth the risk, more worth anything. 

As he walked back to the computer, he didn't notice that he was smiling, but when he shut off the cd-rom and opened the driver to remove the cd, the grin suddenly became almost wolfish. 

He took a moment to wipe his hard drive of any indication that the cd had ever been anywhere near his computer, then carefully, almost reverently, he loaded Joey Ramone into his stereo cd player instead. He found that hard fast first track again, pushed the pause button. 

He opened just the first set of blinds, laughed meanly when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and tracked the man as he dropped behind the shrubs of the neighboring house. 

"Kiss my ass," he muttered, giving a signal so universal that you didn't need ASL to understand his meaning loud and clear. He was still grinning. He turned away from the window, found the stereo, found the play button, found the volume, found the beat. 

Walter Skinner danced. He danced madly, a dervish, laughing without realizing it, waving his arms above his head, shaking first his ass, then his crotch at the spies outside the window, then thrusting his hips even more suggestively and throwing in a quick grab at his dick for good measure. He tried singing along, laughed at his own foolishness, and then did a quick time step across the room. In short, he spend three minutes behaving in a completely un-Skinner like manner, then collapsed, giggling onto the couch. He knew that such a display would have had even Mulder checking the back of his neck for alien vertebrae. The eyes on him probably just chalked it up to drunkenness, which made him laugh even more. 

He pulled off his glasses, tossed them un-gently onto the coffee table and wiped tears from his eyes. Not all of them were from laughter. 

For a moment a wave of longing so strong it nearly doubled him over physically washed over him. 

A moment was all that he allowed himself though. 

With a shuddering deep breath, he compartmentalized his feelings as he'd been doing for so long now, got to his feet, and shut Joey Ramone off with a squawk of protest, hoping maliciously that the punk anthem had shorted out at least one set of ultrasonic listening devices. 

In the kitchen, he made tea, made a mess of it, and made preliminary plans. 

Mopping up the tea he had spilled with a dishtowel off of the rack he had built for them, he let another of those lonely waves wash over him, then pulled it back with warm hope, like the moon's gravity pulling at the ocean. 

At last he had a place to start. 

* * *

Mad Season Chapter 2 - Angry 

"Cry when you cry, run when you run  
Love when you love  
Represent the ashes  
That you leave behind." 

Out on the porch, he practiced frowning, pretended to read and drank his tea. The night was warm and fragrant with the first hints of fresh green grass and flowers. Skinner listened to cars in the distance, birds and crickets in the yard, and the hum of static interference around the perimeter caused by his security system. 

Just before the time specified, Skinner stood with a huge stretch ("kitty stretch", Mulder would have said) and a jaw-cracking yawn, both as real as a Fiji Mermaid. He picked up book, glass and phone, and slipped into the house. He readjusted the blinds, locked the doors and windows, and walked into the bedroom, shutting off all the lights as he went. His heart was thudding quickly and painfully in his chest, as if a massive coronary and wishful thinking had made a baby there. 

He was still juggling the stuff from outside in his hands, and when the book fell to the floor as he toed off his shoes, he ignored it. He managed to fumble the glass onto the cedar nightstand, and it immediately fell over and dumped the last mouthful of tea onto the floor. He ignored that too, flopped himself belly first onto the bed. 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened his eyes and began hammering numbers into the phone. A 1-800 number first. He paused long enough to hear the word 'hello' droned into his ear by a simulated sexy woman's voice, then stabbed down on the buttons again, a ten digit pass code this time, hoping he got it right. Again he cut the automatic voice off before it could even start explaining what he was doing, or how many minutes he had to do it in. He pushed one, and then an area code that he thought might be southern, but he wasn't sure. For a panic-inducing moment he blanked on the rest of the number, sucked in air with a gasp, fired off neurons, found the number and nearly misdialed in his haste and relief. 

"Thank you for calling Dial A Fuck," a sultry pre-recorded voice said. "Your credit is-" a recorded pause-"approved"-another pause-"for the next"-again the pause, while a non-existent person seemed to gather his thoughts-"fifteen minutes." This last was announced in a disjointed voice an octave lower than the original. Then the original voice came back: 

"For beautiful blondes, press one." 

He rolled his eyes. 

"For fiery redheads, press two." 

He had a brief but intensely filthy thought about Scully and almost smiled. 

"For well-hung puppies, press three." 

"Shit." His vision blurred without warning as he pressed the three key on the phone with none of the violence he'd displayed earlier. 

Several beeps and whirs later, sounds he recognized as scrambling devices working overtime, and then a blessedly recognizable whispering voice: 

"What are you wearing?" 

"Oh, shit," he said again, his tone weak, feeling watery relief and unsure if he should laugh, cry or wet himself. 

"Nope," Mulder replied casually, "For scat you need a whole different extension." His voice dropped suddenly, and there was no mistaking the emotion that thickened his tone. "You okay, big guy?" 

"I am now. You?" 

"So far, so good. At least I'm not being beaten or gang raped, so things are definitely looking up." 

Before Skinner could ask him what the hell he meant by that, he added, "We're both fine-still moving.still believing." 

"Of course you are," Skinner forced false buoyancy into his voice. "I'm still really popular here, but despite that, I'm not getting any. So what are _you_ wearing?" 

A surprised snort of laughter on the other end, and then: "Jeez, big guy! Do you have any idea how much iced tea burns when inhaled?" 

"That's hot," Skinner deadpanned. 

"That's me," replied brightly. 

Skinner glanced at his watch. "What can you tell me?" 

"Not much. You're safe for now-" no mistaking the relief in his voice. "They think you're either a drunkard or a fool, and they expect us there any day now." 

"Both," replied Skinner, "and I wish." 

"Sit tight. Let 'em watch. Hell, give 'em a show." 

"I'll jerk off on the porch." 

That snort of laughter again, and a "smart ass" in a voice so full of emotion that the insult became a loving endearment. Then abruptly, he was serious again. 

"Can you tell the guys that they're half-compromised? They need to move." 

"Done." Skinner didn't question him. Didn't dare ask how he came by that information either-knowing would only make the situation that much more dangerous. 

"Here's an email account you need to set up. Do it somewhere else. They're watching your hard drive a little too closely." 

Skinner grinned and knew he'd have no problem remembering the address. 

"How's the short term?" Mulder asked. 

Skinner understood. "Good enough. Tell me." 

Mulder began reciting numbers in a smooth voice only slightly less mechanical than the sexy girl who'd opened the conversation, and yet his voice was still familiar enough, beloved enough, and Mulder enough that he felt himself growing hard. 

"Got it?" Mulder finished. 

"Of course I do." Numbers whirled in his head, and he became aware that time was growing short. He wanted to whine, and some sound did come out of him, but Mulder wouldn't allow it. 

"I know," he replied to the question not asked, "I don't know how long. I won't kid you though-it's killin' me." 

Throwing caution to the wind in light of Mulder's confession, Skinner opened his mouth to say: 

"I luh-" 

And they were cut off. Apparently their fifteen minutes were over. 

"Dammit!" Even as Skinner was cursing and wishing for just one more moment, he was sitting up, reaching for a pen and a paper from the nightstand, making notes, hastily scribbling numbers that wanted to escape his memory. He found himself muttering aloud as he wrote: ".I love you puppy. I should have said give Scully a hug for me.I wish you were here.I should have gotten more.I wish I knew where you were.I wish you were here." 

He took his newfound information, stashed it in the kitchen with the last batch, and felt too wired to sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of going outside and doing as he had told Mulder he would, but decided his brief stint as a dancing queen was enough to make them nervous, never mind the kind of attention he'd garner if he whipped out his piece right there on the front step. 

The situation was more dangerous now, for him, for his lover, for his lover's partner. But he wouldn't have changed a second of it. He knew that he could go for months more now, just on the strength of that brief exchange. Something that had been cold and dead in him was revived, knowing that his lover was alive, and if not well, at least whole, and still fighting the future, in order to build a new one. One that he would be a part of. All he had to do was keep his head. 

A sudden yawn, this one not fake at all, caught him off guard, and he realized that he had mistaken an adrenaline rush for true alertness. Wondering if he shouldn't try to reach the cd delivery boys tonight, warn them as Mulder had asked, he decided that they'd be safe for one more night, and opted instead to go back to the bedroom. 

He shucked his clothes, kicking them in the general direction of the hamper, smiling a little when he realized it was a Mulder habit, and fell onto the bed again. His cock reminded him that he had just heard his lover's voice, and his mind told his cock there'd be time for that in the morning. He pulled the sheets out from underneath his body, suddenly feeling heavy and lethargic. He wondered if he should set the alarm, and was still debating it when sleep claimed him. 

* * *

Mad Season Chapter 3 - Leave 

"It's amazing   
How you make your face just like a wall How you take your heart and turn it off How I turn my head and lose it all." 

The next day, Walter played normal. He ate mechanically, drank gallons of cold tea and kept off the scotch. He sent the CDs back by priority post with "Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.now!" scrawled across the Blue Hawaii soundtrack and hoped they'd understand. He puttered. 

Around teatime, he found a half pint of pistachio ice cream that he'd forgotten buying in the freezer. Spoon and tub in hand, he sat down on the couch, turned on CNN, and paid more attention to the sweet dessert than to the news of deserted cars in North Dakota and tornadoes touching down in Southern Saskatchewan. 

When late afternoon turned into evening, he nonchalantly, he hoped, left the house and went for a long rambling walk. He thought he might be being followed, but he was either mistaken, or the aliens were buying way better help these days. 

His meandering path eventually brought him to a tiny cyber caf, buried in a strip mall less than a quarter mile from his house. Once there, he ordered one of those espresso thingies that Mulder favored from the pimply-faced clerk, and asked to use one of the computers. The clerk gave him his coffee and a patented "you're too old for the internet" look, and showed him where to sit. 

He tried the Americano, found it bitter and hot, and dumped sugar and cream into it, then dismissed it completely and turned to the computer. He didn't see the clerk's eyebrows shoot up in amazement-he was too busy letting his fingers fly over the keyboard, searching for the site that Mulder had given him, using three different methods to get there. 

Once he'd found it, setting up his address and password was easy. 'Only Mulder', he thought with a smile, as both were accepted, and his new mailbox opened. He took a moment to send a 'get the fuck Outta Dodge' message to the guys, not sure if they would get the note he'd mailed them. Then he spent the remainder of the hour he'd bought cruising porn sites, the filthier the better, figuring that if any of his surveillance goons had managed to get this far, he might as well give them a thrill. Just before his time was about to expire, he returned to his new mailbox and discovered one new message. Quelling the sudden urge his hands had to shake, he opened the note: 

To:   
From: 

Subject: Mad Season 

They can't see this. Let me rephrase-I don't think they can see this. God, I hope they can't. 

I hope you got to the guys. It just might save their lives. The virgin says he wants his Joey Ramone disc back. 

Squirrel's just fine. Worried, but that's nothing new. No matter how many times I say to her, "hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat," she refuses to buy into it. That trick never works, she says. Well, it's worked so far. I mean, we're both still drawing air. And the game is definitely no longer tied. I think we've actually scored a few for the good guys. And we plan on more.soon. 

Okay, point to this, and I do have one: Truthfully, aside from being able to "talk" to you, there is no point. I don't mean to wax melodramatic on your ass, Walter, but I just wanted to say that I don't think I could have done the things I did, or could continue to do them in this way, without you. 

The Powers That Be think you're broken; curbed; a bitch brought to heel. Little do they know. The strength they don't see, that cowboy it up, balls of steel, fuck 'em all spine that they're not seeing---it's 'cos you've given it to me. And believe me when I say that I'm looking forward to another round of kick the super soldier's ass! 

It wouldn't be, though, if not for you. I once told S. that she was the only person who ever believed in me. I have NEVER been so happy to be proved wrong. Thank you for that. 

I only meant to dash off a quick ILY, big guy, but as usual, I've gone off on a rant. Suffice to say, I do, you know-maybe even more than you know. 

Well, I should get some sleep before I digress into something horribly cutesy and nauseating, and we both know that would be just sick and wrong. 

Aw, the hell with it! 

{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{Walter}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}] 

I'll deny it, I swear! The redhead says hi. 

M. 

* * *

He read it twice, and deleted it, then erased it, then shut down the computer. He paid the counter boy and left, and the clerk wondered what had been on the computer to make the old man cry like that. 

By the time Skinner had gotten to the late night donut shop at the end of the block, he had wiped away all evidence of emotion, and he was even able to muster up a smile for the sales girl as he bought half a dozen sticky buns and a large steaming cup of unsweetened oolong tea, which he sipped as he made his way home. 

He spent the rest of the night listening to tinny AM gold on a portable radio on the porch, thinking about Mulder. Only when the stars began to fade at the approach of dawn did he finally find himself in a place where he thought he might be able to sleep. 

He slept long and hard, had uneasy dreams full of paperwork and death that made him cry out loud, and woke feeling wholly un-refreshed with tears drying on his cheeks. A long hot shower didn't help. Neither did coffee, tea, or the overlarge lunch he spent too long preparing, and then found himself unable to eat. 

One hot day followed another. When he could eat, he did so lightly, mostly unaware of what he was putting in his body. He went through pitchers of tea, pots of coffee, and a flat of bottled water, and painted the spare bedroom. Joey Ramone kept him company for most of it. 

He thought briefly about putting in bedding plants, but opted instead to get a full tune up for the Blazer. He hadn't driven it much at all lately, didn't have any specific plans to. But he did it just the same, letting some unformed worry guide his actions. He found himself checking the contents of the tiny kitchen safe repeatedly, and when some poor shmuck came to his door with an offer for life insurance, he bought the premium package and made Fox Mulder his sole beneficiary, with a codicil stating that should he be unavailable to collect, the entire thing would got to the national MUFON Society. How Mulder would love that, he thought. 

No more emails came that week. 

* * *

Mad Season Chapter 4 - The Burn 

"I thought about  
Leaving-but I couldn't even get outta bed Hitchin'-but I couldn't get a ride outta town Now anyone who really wanted me to be down Come round. 

The call came at the end of the week. He'd woken late, feeling scratchy and out of sorts, and chalked it up to the heat. He wished briefly that he'd installed an air conditioner, but settled for a cool shower that he lingered in until it was nearly a cold shower. He was still feeling irritable as he ate lunch, cleaned up the kitchen, and took a cup of coffee out onto the porch. 

Storm clouds were hanging above him like pianos, dark and threatening. He figured they would have to break soon, if the humidity and occasional flashes of lightning were any indication. 

When thunder grumbled, he grumbled right back at it, then laughed at himself. 

The heat, his mood and the soporific drone of life going on around him, from the far off sounds of lawnmowers and dogs barking to the closer buzz of insects in the yard and the radio on the porch-all these combined to simultaneously annoy the hell out of him and make him feel too lazy to do anything about it. 

He finished the Michael Nava thriller he'd started just two days before, had a stray thought of iced tea, and wiped sweat from his brow. 

Sitting back on the swing, he pulled off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and tipped his head back. 

The humid air was difficult to pull into his lungs. He was reminded of his lover's kisses as the wet heated air passed his lips, and he closed his eyes with a sad smile, letting ideas best left un-thought filter through his mind. 

He didn't remember falling asleep. 

When the clap of thunder came, Skinner startled half out of his uneasy doze with a grunt. His eyelids felt like they had weights attached to them, and he could feel slick perspiration dotting his brow and trickling down his neck. His mouth tasted sticky and vile and he coughed dryly as he tried to regain full consciousness. 

Another booming thunderclap and the last vestiges of a nightmare faded. He almost tumbled back down into sleep when the first cold drops of rain splashed down on him and the phone-his ever-silent phone-began to ring. 

"Shit!" Instantly wide-awake, he scrabbled madly for the receiver, fumbled it, nearly dropped it; thunder roared, a slash of lightning gave everything an elfish glow, and the skies suddenly opened up. 

Skinner clutched the phone to his chest greedily and backed towards the door, his eyes wide and staring. The rain had formed a gray sheet that was nearly impenetrable, and he probably would have been hard pressed to see a marching band in the yard by that point, never mind camouflaged surveillance. But he didn't look away even as he reached behind him for the door latch, got it open on the second try, and nearly tumbled backwards into the house. 

Slamming the door so hard that he heard the jamb crack, he rushed into the living room, fell onto the couch and put the phone to his ear, thumbing the 'talk' switch and cutting off the ringing. 

"Yeah!" he barked into the phone, wondering why he felt suddenly like throwing up and realizing that he hadn't felt terror like this since Vietnam. 

He knew Mulder was dead. 

"Big guy!" 

He recognized Melvin's voice immediately, and his stomach did another slow roll. 

"You've got to get here! Like, yesterday, man!" 

"He's dead, isn't he?" He shut his eyes against the tears that threatened. 

"Hell, no! Look, I can't talk-you know that! Just get your ass up here-check the clam addy in about a minute-our virgin hacker's got all the details for ya." 

He heard a muffled complaint that had to be Langly, and then Frohike again: 

"Just get it and go-we'll be here!" 

"Fox-" he tried. 

"And for God's sake, don't bring the cavalry along for the ride, okay?" 

Skinner was already moving to the kitchen, the shimmering prisms of tears in his eyes being replaced by something cold and made of black steel. 

"I'm on it!" he snapped. 

"Hey, big guy," Frohike soothed, "I know you are." 

Skinner didn't have time to be soothed. 

"On the way," he said and hung up. He dropped the handset into the sink and grabbed the pasta canister. 

Then it was back to the living room, to the computer; finding the email address, finding the information, wrapped in a code that any first time Dungeons and Dragons player could crack, but that all the snoops in all the governments didn't have a hope of figuring out. 

"Nice, Ringo," he muttered, translating something like 'sword of wounding' into something like 'car wreck'. "I owe ya one." 

Five minutes of hasty scribbling, two minutes of typing and one CD virus later, his computer was nothing more than an expensive paperweight, and he was in the bedroom, laughing bitterly at himself for having a kit already packed. 

He changed out of his sweat and rain dampened shirt and pants, knew he didn't have time for a shower, wished he did, and pulled on worn 501s and a dark green polo shirt. He glanced around the room, knew he was leaving lots of DNA samples behind but nothing else, hoisted the bag over one shoulder, and headed for the door. 

In the front closet, he found his gun, a light jacket and a moment to take a deep breath and remind himself aloud: "Don't panic; Frohike would have said something." 

He shrugged on the jacket and wondered what the hell Mulder and Scully had been doing in Bismarck, North Dakota. He checked the safety on his gun, stowed it in an accessible pocket and wondered how the Gunmen had found them. He took a good look around the room and wondered if he'd ever see it again. 

He took Joey Ramone with him. 

He knew he'd be made as soon as he got into the truck, but it couldn't be helped-he'd parked it so long that any cause for driving was bound to fall under suspicion. But he had an idea or two, and thought that even if they caught him somehow, he'd lead them a merry chase before he was finished. 

The rain was still sheeting down, and he was grateful for the camouflage, no matter how slim it might be. 

He drove around the neighborhood for a few minutes, gritting his teeth and regretting the lost time, but he needed to see if they were on to him. 

He was both pleased and dismayed to notice the same non-descript car following him round the same block three times, always just far enough back. He recognized the pattern from his own days in the field. 

"Drive casual," he muttered, paraphrasing one of his lover's favorite movies as he eased into the heavier traffic heading towards the airport. He began a subtle dodge and weave in and out of traffic. Never speeding or in any other way obvious, as much for the rain-slicked streets and his own safety as for not calling undue attention to himself. He saw the car fall back. One car-length, then two, then catch up a little. That was fine with him. They had to know he was heading to the airport. He didn't care about that. He just wanted some breathing space between him and them. Enough space that they might not notice some of his actions. 

The airport parking entrance loomed ahead in the dark and the rain, and Skinner realized he had put several cars between him and the tail. Relieved that they wouldn't see him, he turned into the long-term parking lot. He bought a 30 day ticket from a clerk so absorbed in the soccer game on his portable TV that even days later and under the influence of bullying and sodium pentathol, he was unable to identify the man in the Blazer. 

Skinner drove to the back of the lot and pulled in next to a station wagon that looked like it had been there for a while. He jumped out of the truck, went around to the back, and got a screwdriver from his tool kit. Glancing around nervously, expecting the world's nastiest cavalry charge to descend on him any moment, he crouched down behind the station wagon, and neatly and quickly removed the license plate. Then he did the same on the front of the car. 

Keeping his movements quiet and economical, still with a wary eye on the entrance to the lot, he switched the plates on his truck for the ones on the car, tossed the screwdriver into the back seat as he reentered his vehicle, and left the lot as unobtrusively as he'd entered it. 

This time he drove boldly to the lot nearest the entrance to the airport. He cruised up and down rows of cars for some time, both to watch for any other cars driving as aimlessly as he was, and in hopes of finding a truck like his own. 

Luck was with him on several levels. The rain began to let up, and weak light aided his search. No other cars seemed to be moving, and, just as he was about to start his search over again from the back of the lot, a tiny sports car pulled out of a spot that it had been obnoxiously and illegally slant parked in, close to the door, and better yet, next to another Blazer. This one was older by a few years, and navy instead of black, but Skinner knew there wouldn't be a better chance than this. 

He wasn't about to kid himself. The aliens-spies-officials, whatever they were, that were keeping their eye on him were not stupid, and this switch and bait game wasn't going to fool them for long. He only wanted to delay, knowing that his chance for escape from their scrutiny would come after he was out of the city. And every small move like this bought him a few more minutes. 

He parked the truck, and entered the terminal. It was busy, but not overly so, and several of the ticket kiosks were completely devoid of customers. He started with Western Air, strolled casually up to the counter, and, glancing up at the schedule, asked for a one-way ticket to Atlanta. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, and paid with his American Express. 'Don't leave home on the run from the feds without it,' he thought with a sour smile as he signed the slip and received his ticket, and instructions on how to get to his plane. 

With his Visa, he bought a round trip to L.A. from another airline, added on flight insurance, then promptly sold it for half the price cash to a redheaded girl standing half a dozen places behind him. 

At the third airline's kiosk, he paid the cash he'd just received to a handsome young man to get a one-way ticket to Toronto, Ontario. He stuffed it into his pocket next to the other ticket, took a moment to scope out the terminal, looking for familiar, or suspicious faces, and then went to the washroom. He spent several minutes there, formulating and discarding half a dozen different plans. He washed his face and hands, paced a little, then decided it was safe to go. Or at least as safe as it was going to get. 

He used a different exit, and walked almost all the way around the building to get back to the truck. The other Blazer was still parked next to him, and he wondered if he should do another plate switch, then decided that the lot was too open, and that the extra time it might buy him wouldn't be worth the time it would cost. 

He drove away from the airport, caught himself back up in traffic and found a radio station that apparently specialized in the blues. That was just fine by him, and the smoky warm sounds made him a little less apprehensive, and made him think of Mulder. 

After what felt like far too long to suit him, he found himself leaving the city behind and he turned onto the highway. Only then did he allow himself to give into his worries, just enough to gun the engine and bring the truck up to something just over the speed limit and just shy of unsafe. 

He raced the rain, but never seemed to quite get ahead of it. He didn't mind. The hypnotic dance of wipers on window soothed him and kept his bleaker thoughts at bay. 

He found a gas station along the way when the gas gauge read E, and bought coffee too, but felt no need to stop or rest. His lover's name was back in his heartbeat, and every delay, even for necessities, caused it to beat louder and stronger. 

He made his first stop two states and twenty four hours later, finally realizing that if he didn't get some sort of rest, he was more than likely going to wind up as nothing more than a grease mark across the highway, or an explosion in some ditch, and that would serve no purpose to anyone. As was his way, fear for himself never really entered into it, more his sense of duty, coupled with his overwhelming love for certain parties involved. This same sense had served him well all his life, even if it had made some of said life damned uncomfortable. He recognized the behavior and had long ago made peace with himself over it. 

He wasn't taking the same route he and Mulder had traveled during that strange summer after Krycek's death, but when he stepped into the tiny motel room on the outskirts of a small town, he was so forcibly reminded of that time that he almost felt dizzy. As he turned on lights he seemed to see his lover in every corner of the room, on the too short bed, coming out of the tiny bathroom, lounging in the only chair in the room. 

He sat heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands. He stayed that way for many minutes. 

After a long time, he got up, wiped his eyes and headed for the bathroom. 

He took a shower, regretted not having more than crappy motel soap to use to wash away the road grime, could have easily fallen asleep as the water sluiced over him, and found himself barely capable of setting the alarm before tumbling naked and exhausted into bed. 

* * *

Mad Season Chapter 5 - Last Beautiful Girl 

"You needed to still be friends  
Needed me to  
Call you if I ever couldn't keep it all together You'd comfort me  
Tell me but forever  
And the promises I never should have believed in." 

The alarm's shrill beeping pulled him from dreamless sleep, another shower brought him fully awake, and he grimaced with distaste as he pulled on his clothes from the day before, opting to go commando for the day. He wasn't sure how long the trip was going to take, and he had no expectations of being able to stop along the way to do a load of laundry. He'd just have to make do. 

The rain that had dogged his trail thus far was no more than a distant blue memory this morning, and somehow this, combined with the good time he was making, and the lack of government issue cars on the same stretch of highway, all conspired to make him feel a little better. Still the sense of urgency, still some nagging worry, but not the bleak despair that had come over him last night. 

Another day passed, another state passed, both in a whirl of highways, secondary routes when he thought they might be quicker, bad coffee and take out food. He found himself having to spend a few extra minutes at a rest stop on the Minnesota border when his stomach rebelled against the greasy hamburger and fries he'd wolfed down on the drive. He found a few choice curse words that he'd been saving, apparently for just such an occasion, picked up antacid at the next town, and kept going. 

When the darkest part of the night found him yawning in the middle of nowhere, he simply pulled the truck over as far as he could from the main road, shut her off and reclined his seat. 

It was something like the way he'd felt in Vietnam. His sleep was hard and restful, but short in duration, and he found himself waking automatically only a few short hours later. He didn't feel tired at all. He was aware that part of this was adrenaline, which was currently being dumped into his system by the bucket, and part of it was fear. In the Asian jungles, you learned to sleep where you stood, and wake at the crackling of a leaf a hundred yards away. You never knew who might be coming after you. This situation felt so similar, that he wondered briefly if looking out his window he might see those damnable child-like soldiers in their black pajamas, waiting to get a clear shot at him. 

He adjusted the seat and sat up with a groan as something cracked in his spine. It ached at first, and then felt good, and Mulder would have told him that he was just releasing carbon monoxide gas from the joint capsules in his spine. 

Stepping out of the truck, he slipped around the side to relieve himself. Another stretch and a scratch, and he was hopping back into the vehicle. He quickly consulted one of the many maps in the glove box, and was back in motion in minutes, with a silent promise to himself of clean clothes and a hot shower as soon as he hit the border. 

The rain he'd avoided all the day before came back with a vengeance, making the truck feel stuffy and closed in. He finally said the hell with it, and opened the window, getting himself damp, but feeling less claustrophobic, not to mention getting the scent of three day old Skinnerclothes out of the vehicle. 

By the time he had made it to North Dakota, he was fervently wishing he'd used one of his airline tickets. But he also knew that it would have been the first place they would have looked for him, and that a single vehicle on the run was the safest way to do the job. He didn't know what he was going to find here, and any time he thought about it too hard, he started to feel queasy, so he had simply made a plan, put it in motion, and thought of nothing but getting to his destination. 

The sky was growing dark when he found a truck stop that specialized in big rigs and the men who drove them, and he nearly felt a physical twinge of longing when he saw the sign advertising showers and rooms. 

He didn't think he could manage to stop now, so near his goal, but he knew he was going to definitely take advantage of the amenities. He found an empty stall at the end of the lot, grabbed his bag from the back of the truck, and managed not to get pissy with the man behind the counter, who sniffed visibly when he asked about using the showers. He imagined briefly putting his hands around the man's skinny throat and squeezing until his eyeballs popped out, then politely asked for directions. The man waved him away with a key and a towel, and he left the office, walked down a little path at the back of the building, and found a large communal shower set back from the highway. 

His groan of almost ecstatic relief bounced off the acoustically inclined walls of the large shower stall. He found soap that was of almost industrial grade, not like that lousy motel soap, this stuff lathered up like mad, and washed away all the grit and dirt and a lot of worry with it. 

After a half way decent meal, which he wouldn't remember eating later, several cups of strong coffee, and a quick check up for the Blazer, just because the mechanic on duty was offering, he was back on the road, and the miles seemed to go by that much quicker. His only regret was not shaving. His beard grew quickly when left unattended, and he felt shaggy and unkempt. 

As he neared the Bismark city limits, he consulted his hastily scribbled directions, once again silently thanked Langly for his geeky abilities, and in no time at all, he was pulling into the parking lot of a large sleek and new looking building. 

He shut off the truck and just sat looking at the outside of the Bismark General Hospital for a long time. At first, he wasn't sure that he could actually make his legs move, make his feet take the steps into that building, which housed as much death as life. A building that could hold the end of his lover, and in a way, the end of himself, should that be the case. And then, after remembering Frohike's assurances, vague as they may have been, he wondered if he needed to find a back entrance. He thought about guards, and surveillance, and things he'd learned as an FBI agent, and as a marine. 

Double checking the rounds in his gun, he stepped out of the car. 

A cool breeze hinted that the rain, which seemed to be his only constant companion, hadn't finished with him yet, but the last thing on his mind was the weather. Noah himself could have been fussing with cubits of gopher wood in the parking lot, and he wouldn't have noticed at this point. 

Once he got moving, it became easier. That litany, the one that had become the soundtrack for his life, got louder and louder: Mulder, Mulder, Mulder. 

Inside the hospital, he assessed his options, completely disregarded the admissions desk, and headed straight for the elevators, and the Intensive Care Unit on the top floor. During the ride up he said a quick fervent prayer to a God he hadn't been sure was still with him until Mulder had come into his life, asking to maintain the status quo in that regard. 

He steeled himself with a deep breath when the elevator came to a stop, and stepped out into the hall. 

"Walter!" 

He turned at the familiar voice, stunned to see John Doggett racing up the hall to meet him. 

"John!" he exclaimed. "How did you get here?" 

Doggett smiled nastily. "It's amazing what you hear when you're on surveillance." 

Skinner smiled back just as meanly, and they fell into step together. 

"Talk to me, John. What happened?" 

"Well, we're not exactly sure." They turned a corner, and he continued. "And the only one who could tell us ain't talkin'" 

Frohike was standing outside one of the rooms, and when he saw the two men approaching, he rushed the few short feet between them and wrapped his arms around Skinner's waist with a happy shout. "Big guy!" 

"Unh!-hi, Melvin." Skinner was knocked back a step by the exuberance of the smaller man's welcome. He gave Frohike a quick, almost embarrassed hug, and then shook him off gently like he was a puppy. 

"Okay, I'm here now," he said, "Can someone tell me what's going on?" Even as he spoke gruffly, he could feel something inside him cringing, wanting to turn, run, do anything but face what might be behind the door Frohike had been guarding. 

Doggett held the door open for him. 

He felt like he was moving through water, through syrup. His steps felt heavy and slow-he could hear his own heart beat, thudding dully in his chest, in counterpoint to the shrill monotonous beep of a heart monitor somewhere nearby. 'Cardiac jazz' he thought stupidly, and then he was glaring at Langly and Byers, who stood blocking his view of the bed. They turned to him and didn't smile, despite their obvious relief and pleasure at seeing him there. Instead, they parted like human curtains on a hospital stage, slowly revealing the lead actor in this particular play, which at times was a comedy, but was now definitely a tragedy of Tony winning proportions. 

It wasn't Mulder. 

So great was his relief that he actually swayed on his feet for a moment, and didn't immediately show any horror at who was in fact lying motionless in that hospital bed. For a brief instant, he could only be ecstatic that he wasn't looking at Fox Mulder, in yet another hospital bed, flirting with death. 

Byers grabbed his arm to steady him, and Dana Scully opened her eyes. 

"Oh, God." He tried not to see. He tried just to focus on her eyes, and not look at-not see- 

It was impossible, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes at the sight of the barely healed and brutally recognizable wounds. Livid scars that were once gaping tears in the flesh, three on each cheek. They were closed over enough that bandages weren't necessary, but fresh enough to still give Scully's face a swollen and misshapen look. Angry red swelling and milk pale skin made her blue eyes nearly black in contrast. 

A white sheet was pulled up nearly to her neck, but Skinner didn't need to see to know what was there. He'd seen Mulder's body after-after- 

She had an oxygen tube in her nose, and something else in the one arm that he could see above the sheet. He glanced away from the needle in the crook of her elbow, saw a thick bandage covering her wrist, and sought out her eyes again. 

"Scully." he whispered, aghast that this could happen again, and to her of all people. And if they had taken her, then what- 

His thoughts were cut off abruptly by a noise, like a sigh, from the badly hurt woman. He shook his head immediately. 

"Don't try to talk," he insisted, even when another part of him was screaming to hear what she had to say. He reached out to brush an errant lock of red hair from her brow, and she suddenly grabbed his arm. 

As she moved her own arm, she visibly paled, and her eyes slipped shut. 

"Come on." Doggett had moved in beside Skinner and now tried to pull him away from Scully. 

Suddenly her grip on his arm became ferocious and her eyes flew open, snapping and flashing angrily at he two men. She apparently wanted Skinner right where he was. 

"Scully-" Skinner said, and at the same time, "Dana-" said Doggett. 

The two men looked at each other, and Doggett nodded his understanding and moved back. Skinner realized in that moment that there was more going on here than just agent-to-agent concern-at least on John Doggett's part. He wondered if Scully knew. He hoped so. 

A firm tug totally at odds with the frail appearance of the woman on the bed, and Skinner gave her his full attention. 

"Walter." she sighed. 

"It's okay, Dana," he replied, trying to convince himself. "You're safe now." 

"Muh-Muh-" 

He knew what word she was trying to form, and icy dread settled January-like around his heart. 

"What about Mulder?" he asked, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. 

Scully's mouth opened and closed, bird-like, but no sound came out. Instead, she swallowed, winced and closed her eyes again. But her grip on him remained strong. 

"Water?" Skinner asked both Scully and the room in general, and got no reply save a small cough from Dana. No one else moved. 

"Who's with me here?" he suddenly snapped angrily. Turning to Langly, who was closest, he snapped, "Blondie, get some damned water in here-NOW!" 

Langly nearly tripped over himself running to the bathroom, and would have poured the whole glassful on Skinner on the way back had Doggett not caught the fumbling glass, pulling it smoothly out of the young man's hands and taking it to the bed. 

He brushed past Skinner, who was holding his hand out for the glass, and instead he found a spot on the bed where he could lift Scully's head, cradle it with infinite gentleness, and hold the glass to her lips. 

Once again, Skinner was moved by the depth of emotion radiating out of John Doggett for the woman held in his arms, and he hoped there'd be a future for them, should Scully feel the same way. 

Despite the situation, "doctor" Scully made a brief appearance, as she sipped slowly at the water, and drank only enough to slake the worst of her thirst. 

Skinner admired her. He knew that had their roles been reversed, he would have drunk greedily, and then thanked them for the water by yakking all over the sheets. 

Scully still held him by the wrist, and now she turned her attention back on him, not noticing the hurt look on Doggett's face. 

"Scully," Skinner said, "Dana, you need to rest. What you've been through.I know, but-but-" His voice cracked. "Was Mulder taken again?" 

In the pause that followed, Skinner had time to reflect briefly on Mulder's last round of Now You See Him Now You Don't with the aliens, and he knew that his lover could not survive another abduction. 

When Scully shook her head he felt another wave of relief crest over him. 'Much more of this he thought, and I'm going to drown.' 

"He-he got away." The words slipped so softly from her lips that he almost didn't hear her lips that he almost didn't hear her. A moment later he processed and tried to smile. Seeing Scully's injuries, it was impossible to. 

"No time," Scully was whispering again, her eyes imploring. "You have to go." 

"Where, Scully?" Now he was hanging onto her arm as vehemently as she was tugging on his. 

"Listen," More weak coughing, and Doggett moved in again with the water. Scully waved him away, but with a look of gratitude that mollified him somewhat. 

"M-Mulder-" Find spittle flecked her lips, and Skinner was alarmed to see it was pink-tinged. "Mulder," she said again. "He-we-there was a plan." She glanced down at herself, then back up with a rueful hurt grin. "This was not part of the plan." 

Her words demanded a smile despite himself, and he gave it to her, soft and gentle. 

"If we got separated, or-or-" She wasn't sure how to finish. "We each had a safe place. And a cod phrase to use for someone we luh-" another pause. "My mom.you." 

Skinner brushed a hand over his eyes. Then he leaned in close. 

"What did he say, Scully?" 

"He said." 

She trailed off, and Skinner was torn between comforting the stricken woman and strangling her if he had forgotten. 

"He's looking for the truth-" 

That didn't help at all. 

"Or an acorn." 

Skinner ran from the room. 

(To be continued...) 

* * *

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